Summary

President James Barnes has spent his career saying that the defining moment of his life was when he discovered that Steve Rogers had sacrificed himself while Bucky had lain in a New York hospital bed with only one arm.

Now, Bucky would say it was when SHIELD told him Steve was alive.

The one where Bucky is President, Steve makes friends and enemies in the future, and a wedding in the Rose Garden has to wait until Hydra is defeated again.

Summary

Bucky is a highly successful cooking and lifestyle blogger, the gay New England Pioneer Woman if you will. He writes all about life in his Connecticut home with his D.H. (darling husband). Only problem? It’s all complete fiction. He actually lives in a shitty Brooklyn apartment, is single as hell, and has visited Connecticut exactly one time at the age of eight.

When his agent Sam informs him that he's been offered an exclusive sponsorship deal with Stark Media and a three book contract to go with it, Bucky's forced to fess up to Sam, who's predictably...displeased. But Sam's also convinced the deal is too good to miss—even if they have to put on a little bit of a show in order to get it.

So Tony and Pepper descend on Bucky and Sam's fake home for Christmas with a devastatingly handsome War Hero in tow, and their already complicated plan quickly gets even more complicated as Bucky finds himself falling head over heels for Steve. Can he keep it together just for the holidays? Did he ever have it together in the first place?

Summary

"Who knew that the Avengers could throw such a rager? Well, we all knew Ironman could but he wasn’t here last night so we thought… I mean, even without him we had to kick out a few people.” The hotel receptionist chatted softly as she dug around in her desk.

“The Avengers?” Bucky practically squeaked.

“Oh yes, I mean, that was the only party here last night. That must have been the one you went to, right?” The receptionist stopped and gave him a questioning look.

Summary

Bucky was used to finding Steve in alleys. Not every day, thank baby Jesus and all the saints or he’d be as grey as Mrs Milligicutty, but often enough.

The thing about Steve in alleys was, it meant finding Steve in fights. Or finding Steve after fights, bloody and bruised, picking gravel and dirt out of his skin, having come off third best in a two-person punch-up. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, it meant finding Steve standing, bruised but unbowed, glaring down some hapless meathead who’d underestimated just how much sheer goddamned never-say-die was packed onto those skinny bones.

That was Steve in alleys. Not this hunched over sack of glare, facing down a mangy orange tom cat that was glaring right back and trying to dart past his legs.